Laura S. Young

Ruse

An apple is not a story, but its ripeness holds weight as if it is; waiting in the trees for its resurrection as chlorophyll-laden leaves transform rays of sun into nectar-filled flowers that become crimson harbingers of joy, foreteller of truths; once fallen, wasps murmur in the grass nearby, drunk on sweetness and heedless of the roaring blade while roots step carefully over the circled bodies.

Inside, succulent juices tip and balance with time; the flesh forbids to be consumed in one sitting as its admirer tastes it line by line, nibbling through its crisp tartness to salivate and satisfy a vast and unquenchable curiosity.

Mystery rests in this pale delicate flesh, for an apple is more than a story; it’s a primly wrapped promise, a ruse—a guise, concealing secrets from the soil that sustains it; its seeds, buried for doubting tongues, come to life for those not afraid of seeing the glutted ripe flesh.